Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You must have been pretty sure I’d . . . make you my doctor last night,” Cynthia challenged.

  “No, I wasn’t. Last night, when I called your mother, that was one young female taking care of another. I hate those damned hospital gowns myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to keep you in here for at least of couple of days,” Amy said. “But that doesn’t mean in bed. If you’d like, put some clothes on, and we can have lunch in the cafeteria. The food isn’t any better, but it’s not on a tray.”

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said.

  Amy smiled at her and walked out of the room.

  When Inspector Peter Wohl walked into the Investigations Section of Special Operations, he found just about the entire staff, plus Staff Inspector Mike Weisbach and Captain Dave Pekach, in the former classroom. Pekach, in the unique uniform—breeches and boots—of the Highway Patrol, was the only one in uniform.

  “Am I interrupting anything important?” Wohl asked.

  “A suitable description of our present labors,” Sergeant Jason Washington announced in his deep, sonorous voice, “would be ‘spinning our wheels.’ ”

  “What are you doing?” Wohl asked.

  “Trying to make sense of Matt’s transcriptions of the Kellog tapes,” Pekach explained. “And getting nowhere.”

  “They’re useless?”

  “They’ve made me change my mind about nothing dirty going on in Five Squad,” Pekach said. “But what, nobody seems to be able to figure out, at least from the tapes. And as far as using them as evidence—”

  “Is Payne essential?” Wohl asked.

  Matt picked up on Wohl calling him by his last name; he suspected it might suggest he was in disfavor.

  What did I do?

  Shit, those FBI clowns did report me!

  “I fear that all those hours our Matthew put in transcribing the tapes were a waste of time and effort,” Washington said.

  “Not a waste, Jason,” Weisbach said. “Finding nothing we can use, so to speak, has taught us they are (a) up to something and (b) rather clever about whatever it is.”

  “I stand corrected, sir,” Jason said.

  “I can have Payne?” Wohl asked.

  “He’s all yours,” Weisbach said. “See me later, Matt.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  Matt stood up and followed Wohl out of the room. Wohl walked quickly, and Matt almost had to trot to catch up with him.

  “What’s up?” Matt asked.

  Wohl ignored him.

  They went down the stairs and then up the corridor to Wohl’s office. Matt followed him inside.

  Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin—a tall, heavyset, large-boned, ruddy-faced man with good teeth and curly silver hair—was sitting on the couch before Wohl’s coffee table in the act of dunking a doughnut in a coffee mug.

  For all of Matt’s life, Coughlin had been “Uncle Denny” to him. He had been his father’s best friend, and Matt had come to suspect that Denny Coughlin, who had never married, had been in love—secretly, of course— with Patricia Stevens Moffitt Payne, Matt’s mother, for a very long time.

  He also suspected that this was not an occasion on which Chief Inspector Coughlin should be addressed as “Uncle Denny.”

  “Good morning, Chief,” he said.

  Coughlin looked at him for a long moment, expressionless, before he replied.

  “Matty, what’s with you and the FBI?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “I asked you a question,” Coughlin said evenly.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have taken them on the wild-goose chase like that, but they’re—”

  “Start at the beginning,” Wohl shut him off. “And right now, neither the Chief or I are interested in what you think of the FBI.”

  Matt related, in detail, his entire encounter with Special Agents Jernigan and Leibowitz. When he came to the part of leading them up and down the narrow alleys of North Philadelphia before finally parking in the Special Operations parking lot, Chief Inspector Coughlin had a very difficult time keeping a straight face.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Now let me tell you what’s happened this morning. I had a telephone call from Walter Davis. You know who he is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Davis said that he would consider it a personal favor if I would set up a meeting, as soon as possible, between himself, the two agents you got into it with, Peter, and me. And that he would be grateful if I kept the meeting, until after we’d talked, under my hat. Do you have any idea what that’s all about, Matty?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Somehow, I think there’s more to this than you being a wiseass with his agents,” Coughlin said. “I think if that’s all there was to this, the Polack would have gotten a formal letter complaining about the uncooperative behavior of one of his detectives.”

  The Polack was Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich.

  “Yeah,” Inspector Wohl said thoughtfully.

  “And he wants me to keep this under my hat until after we have a meeting,” Coughlin went on. “Which makes me think of something else. Did either of the FBI guys do anything they shouldn’t have done, Matty?”

  “Well, they should have been sure there was a kidnapping before they started asking a lot of questions,” Matt said.

  “That’s not what I mean. Did they violate any of your civil rights? Push you around? Brandish a pistol? Anything like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Maybe Matt’s onto it with what he said,” Wohl said. “Maybe Davis is embarrassed that he had people running around investigating a nonkidnapping. And doesn’t want Matt to tell the story to an appreciative audience at the FOP Bar. The FBI is very image conscious.”

  Detective Payne was enormously relieved that he had become “Matt” again.

  “Could be,” Chief Coughlin said. “But I have a gut feeling there’s more to this than that. I have been wrong before.”

  Coughlin heaved himself off the couch with a grunt, walked to Wohl’s desk, consulted a slip of paper he took from his pocket, and dialed a number.

  “Chief Inspector Coughlin for Mr. Davis, please,” he said to whoever answered, and then, a moment later: “Dennis Coughlin, Walter. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I’ve had a chance to speak with Peter Wohl. The best I have been able to set up is half past four at the Rittenhouse Club. Would that be convenient?”

  Davis’s reply could not be heard.

  “Look forward to seeing you, too, Walter,” Coughlin said, and hung up. He looked at Wohl and Payne. “Pay attention, you two,” he said, smiling. “Write this down. When dealing with the enemy, never meet him on his own turf—Davis wanted us to come to the FBI office—and, if possible, keep him waiting.”

  Walter Davis, trailed by Special Agents Howard C. Jernigan and Raymond Leibowitz, walked up to the porter’s desk in the Rittenhouse Club at 4:15 and announced, “I’m Mr. Davis. I’m expecting a gentleman named Coughlin.”

  The porter turned and examined the membership board.

  I’ll be damned. Coughlin is a member. Of course. He would have to be. He suggested this place to meet. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Chief Coughlin is in the bar, sir,” the porter said, his tone suggesting that life would be much easier if stupid members took a look at the membership board themselves.

  Coughlin, Peter Wohl, and Matt Payne were sitting at a large table—with room for six chairs—and had been there, Davis saw, at least long enough to get bar service.

  The three of them stood up as Davis approached.

  “You’re looking well, Walter,” Coughlin said, offering his large hand.

  “As you do, Dennis,” Davis said, and offered his hand first to Wohl—“Thank you for making time for me, Peter”—and then to Matt. “How are you, Payne?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” Payne said.

  “You’ve met these fellows,” Davis said. “But let me int
roduce them to Peter and Dennis. Raymond Leibowitz and Howard Jernigan.”

  The men shook hands.

  A waiter appeared. Davis ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, Leibowitz the same, and Jernigan ginger ale.

  “I’d really like to be somewhere where we won’t be overheard,” Davis said. “Is there somewhere . . .”

  “Matty’s father told me they spent a lot of money designing this room,” Coughlin said, gesturing at the high, paneled ceiling, “as someplace where people could have discreet conversations. But if you’re uncomfortable, Walter, there are private rooms.”

  “No. I’m sure this will be fine,” Davis said.

  “You’re the commanding officer of Special Operations,

  I understand, Inspector,” Jernigan said, oozing charm.

  “Yes, I am,” Peter said, and added mischievously, “I understand you’ve seen our headquarters.”

  Jernigan colored.

  Coughlin laughed, and after a second, somewhat artificially, Davis joined in.

  “Let’s clear the air,” Coughlin said. “Detective Payne should have told your people he was a police officer, and he should not have taken them on—what should we call it?—a tour of the scenic attractions of North Philadelphia, and he is prepared to apologize, isn’t that so, Matty?”

  “Yes, sir. We just got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry.”

  The waiter appeared with the drinks.

  “I propose a toast to peace, friendship, and cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Coughlin said, and raised his glass.

  “A very appropriate toast, one I quickly agree to, under the circumstances,” Davis said.

  “What circumstances would those be, Walter?” Coughlin asked.

  “I think I’ll let Raymond get into that,” Davis said. “But first let me tell you that Raymond and Howard aren’t in my office. They operate out of FBI Headquarters in Washington; they’re members of the Anti-Terrorism Group.”

  “Anti-Terrorism?” Matt blurted.

  Coughlin and Wohl frowned at him.

  “Before we came to see you, Detective Payne,” Leibowitz said, “there just wasn’t time to check in with the Philadelphia office. If there was, we would have known who you were. Are.”

  “I thought you were investigating the kidnapping of Susan Reynolds,” Matt said. “Actually, the nonkidnapping.”

  “ ‘Kidnapping’?” Leibowitz said, visibly surprised. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Well, then, what the hell were you investigating? She’s rich; rich people get kidnapped; she was missing—the FBI knew she was missing. Her father is a very important man; I figured that was why the FBI was working on a weekend.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Leibowitz said. “You really thought we were investigating her kidnapping?”

  “I had the feeling you thought I had done it,” Matt said. “Understandably, I was a little annoyed.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what we were investigating, what we are investigating,” Leibowitz said. “But it can’t go any further than this room.”

  “I’m sure, Leibowitz,” Davis said pointedly, “that we can trust the discretion of Chief Coughlin, Inspector Wohl, and Detective Payne.”

  Special Agent Leibowitz’s face showed that he was more than a little uncomfortable trusting the discretion of Detective Payne.

  “Does the name Bryan C. Chenowith mean anything to you, Detective Payne?”

  Matt searched his memory, then shook his head, “no.”

  “Eloise Anne Fitzgerald?”

  Matt shook his head again.

  “Jennifer Ollwood?”

  Matt shook his head.

  “Edgar L. Cole?”

  Matt held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Never heard of any of them,” he said.

  “They’re all wanted by both the federal government and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania on a number of charges—”

  “University of Pittsburgh?” Chief Coughlin interrupted.

  “Right,” Leibowitz said.

  Matt looked at Coughlin curiously

  “So far as we’re concerned,” Leibowitz went on, “we want them, and some others, on—among other federal charges—unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.”

  “Prosecution for what?” Wohl asked.

  “Murder.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Coughlin said. “They’re the people who blew up the Biological Sciences building at the University of Pittsburgh?”

  “Thereby causing the unlawful deaths of eleven persons, according to the indictments handed down by the grand jury in Allegheny County—Pittsburgh.”

  “As a gesture of their displeasure with the use of monkeys in medical research, right?” Coughlin said, now bitterly. “Eleven innocent people were blown up!”

  “Yes, sir,” Leibowitz said.

  “What’s this got to do with Susan Reynolds?” Matt asked, unable to easily accept the accusation that Daffy’s friend had been involved in blowing anything up.

  “We have reason to believe Miss Reynolds has in the past, and is now, aiding and abetting these fugitives in their unlawful flight,” Leibowitz said. “Sufficient reason for us to have obtained permission in federal court for a wiretap on her parents’ residence and, for that matter, wherever she happens to be.”

  “I’m more than a little confused,” Wohl said. “How did you guys get to Matt?”

  “Well, we’d like to have enough people to surveille her around the clock, but we don’t,” Leibowitz said. “But we listen to her phone calls, and when something interesting comes up—her mother getting excited that Susan didn’t make the usual ‘Good night, Mommy dear’ phone call and calling Mrs. Nesbitt to find out where Susan was, for example—we act on it.”

  “She disappeared in the company of a guy named Matt Payne,” Jernigan amplified. “Was she really off somewhere passing money, or whatever, to Bryan Chenowith, and his murderous band of animal activists? And who is Matt Payne? Is he part of the animal-activist underground railroad? Just as soon as we got the word from the wire tappers—and checked the phone book and found only one Payne, Matthew M. in Philadelphia—we drove up from Washington to find out. ”

  “She told Daffy—Mrs. Nesbitt,” Matt said, “that she was in her room at the Bellvue-Stratford all night, and just hadn’t answered the telephone. She wasn’t in her room all night.”

  “How do you know that?” Jernigan asked.

  “I know.”

  “She was with you, you mean?” Jernigan pursued.

  “No. The last time I saw her—I told you guys this—she was in the Nesbitts’ house in Society Hill. I don’t know where she was, but she did not sleep in her hotel room that night.”

  “How do you know that?” Jernigan demanded.

  “Forget I said it.”

  “How do you know that she wasn’t in her room?”

  “She didn’t use the bed. She strikes me as the kind of a girl who would not sleep on the floor.”

  “I keep asking you how you know all this.”

  “I decline to answer the question on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate me,” Matt said.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Matty?” Chief Coughlin asked angrily.

  “Chief,” Matt said after a perceptible pause, “if, hypothetically, someone gained access to premises under conditions that might be considered breaking and entering, wouldn’t he be foolish to admit that to the FBI?”

  “Jesus, Matty, what the hell were you doing?” Coughlin said.

  “Why would this hypothetical person we’re talking about, Payne,” Davis asked, “break into this hypothetical other person’s hotel room?”

  “We’re out of school, Davis, right?” Denny Coughlin came to Matt’s defense.

  “Absolutely. You have my word,” Davis said.

  “Watch yourself, Matt,” Wohl said, which earned him a look of gratitude from Chief Coughlin and lo
oks of annoyance from Davis, Jernigan, and Leibowitz.

  “The morning after the party, I got a call from Chad Nesbitt, who, like his wife, was under the impression that Susan Reynolds had left the party with me. They thought she had spent the night with me. I told them she hadn’t—”

  “Who is this guy Nesbitt?” Jernigan asked. “This is the first time that name came up.”

  “He’s in the grocery business,” Matt said.

  “Matty!” Coughlin warned, and then turned to Jernigan and explained: “Nesbitt’s father is chairman of the board of Nesfoods International.”

  “We have noticed that a number of these people who like to blow things up in the name of love for animals come from the, quote, better families, unquote,” Jernigan said. “Is there any chance Mr. Nesbitt might be connected with Chenowith and Company?”

  “I think that’s very unlikely,” Matt said, coldly angry.

  “Why?”

  “Well, he’s an ex-Marine, for one thing.”

  “So am I,” Leibowitz said. “But on the other hand, so was Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  “I think we can safely proceed on the assumption that Mr. Nesbitt—or his wife—is not in sympathy with these people you’re looking for,” Wohl said. “Payne was telling us about his telephone call.”

  “Right. So Nesbitt asked me, since I live only a couple of blocks away from the Bellvue, to go there and see what I could find out.”

  “As a police officer, you mean?” Leibowitz asked. “Your friend was now concerned with the welfare of the Reynolds woman? Because she was missing?”

  “He was concerned because his wife was on his back about her friend,” Matt said. “And I went to the Bellvue as a civilian. Not as a police officer.”

  “And while you were there, you somehow found yourself in her hotel room?” Leibowitz asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Matt said.

  “Payne, we’re all on the same side here,” Davis said.

  “Hypothetically, Matt, how could someone gain access to her hotel room?” Wohl asked.

  “Hypothetically, with a master key.”

  “Apropos of nothing whatever,” Wohl said, “Detective Payne recently participated in a surveillance operation at the Hotel Bellvue-Stratford.”